The Young Wolf
by Squirrel-fifteen
Summary: To send untrained soldiers to war is to throw them away. Never having set foot beyond Mordor, Fëatho is terribly unprepared to face the world beyond his father's lands when he's sent to retrieve the ring. But what more can a loyal soldier do but fight, even, when he knows he'll lose? All that remains: deciding what he's prepared to give up. In the end the choice may not be his.
1. A Meeting with Papa Wolf

**Author's Note: My twisted take on a tenth-walker fic…sort of.**

 **Disclaimer: I make no profit off anything I write.**

 **A Meeting with Papa Wolf**

* * *

Smoke roiled from Mount Orodruin, a sign that any day it would soon erupt, whenever the Lord of Mordor's darkening mood finally hit its peak. And Fëatho watched the billowing dark clouds with a mix of worry and excitement.

His father's wrath was dangerous and violent and well he had learned that at an early age, but rare were the times when it affected the mountain. Most of the mountain's eruptions were natural occurrences. Arda's molten blood flowed freely in glowing veins that coloured the bleak landscape. Without misgiving he could sit and watch and celebrate the glory of Mordor's deadly majesty, knowing when the mountain's rage had passed his father would sigh, hearing of the damage done to his roads, before sending orcs to repair them.

But the mountain's current activity tinged his enthusiasm with anxiety, because his father was unhappy. There was power in the mountain; cracks, crevices, hollows, and chambers that echoed with old song if one had the ears to hear it, and he felt them now- the buzz of notes too far away to make out humming in the earth and quietly reverberating throughout Barad-dûr's dark walls.

He wished his father could be happy. If the mountain's fiery displays of his father's anger were rare, then his father's moments of pleasure were even more so, and he wished, he wished, that he could do something, anything, to fix that.

Mordor's lord had always been overly controlling and incredibly domineering pain in Fëatho's rear-end. The found himself bound within the walls of Barad-dûr, everything he did was heavily regimented, and he was sure that his every move was reported to the Lord of Mordor, but in spite of all that he loved his father, and hated that his pleas to aid him were refused or subverted to other tasks. Never had Fëatho been allowed to do something truly daring or dangerous in his father's name.

Sure he commanded men and orcs when asked and went through reports his father had not the time to look upon but loathed to delegate to anyone less trustworthy. And Fëatho knew having such a place on the Dark Lord's council was an honour, but as time wore on he felt increasingly constricted, a prisoner inside his own home. For years he had not been permitted beyond the walls, and every day the need to get a breath of fresh air grew more poignant. Even his dreams were filled with far off places, Minas Tirith surrounded by dust and filled with enemies was starting to look appealing.

His father had told him many times of the grass that surrounded Minas Tirith. It was green and yellow, but all he could imagine when he thought of the white city were dark walls, jagged spires, and darkness- a landscape not unlike the one beyond his window. He knew nothing else, and while he loved his home and always would, he desperately wished to travel beyond the walls, beyond the orcs, beyond the cares of his father, and beyond the duties that came with being his father's son, to see what the lands that other people called home.

A single day would be enough. He would even ask his father to accompany him, but he knew the Lord of Mordor would not abandon his fortress when there was war to prepare for and enemies to punish-

The young lord jumped as a knock sounded at his door.

Seconds later he heard the pitter-patter of his servant's feet in the adjoining room as he hastened to the door. Muffled voices tickled Fëatho's ears as he glanced at himself in the mirror.

Plucking at his clothes and running pale fingers through the curly ends of the thick red braid draped over his shoulder, he made sure he was presentable.

His servant, Ikshu appeared in the mirror, lightly bowing in the threshold of the archway.

"Your father wishes to see you Lord."

Nodding, he gave himself another swift appraisal. It would never do well to look less than perfect when wandering outside his chambers. His father would undoubtedly hear of it if he did, and as the son of the greatest being on Middle Earth he needed to look the part. Earning the respect of Mordor's denizens was not easy, and there were many who disliked him for having power and favour that they thought was undeserved and had never been worked for.

Fëatho had heard the rumours. Most were wise enough to keep their opinions to themselves when in his father's presence, but he knew what they thought of him. He knew that they called him _'runt'_ and said he _'merely piggybacked on his father's success,_ ' and he could not find it in himself to argue when he truly felt he had done nothing to help his father _. 'He gets all the benefits and suffers none of the work,'_ they whispered when he they thought he couldn't hear, and the young lord hated how right they were.

"I go to him presently." He breezed past his man servant into what served as his study, and met the orcish messenger tittering at the door.

"Take me to him."

* * *

Outside the thick dark doors of his father's quarters, the orc bowed and scurried away. Fëatho paid the hastily retreating messenger little heed. He knew well that his father was not the kindest of masters, nor was he the most pleasant to look upon, or so he'd heard. The face of the Dark Lord had always been concealed within the blackness of a low hood. And that sent a pang of jealously rippling through his veins.

It was horribly unfair that he should never know what his father looked like, when servants less than he had seen his face, and the Nazgûl; wraiths of men bound to is father's will for eternity had seen his father in the days of his beauty, when elves called him Annatar, and men revered him as Zigûr and Tar-Mairon.

Realistically he knew it was not the Wraiths' faults for being born when they had, but being denied all his life something so seemingly simple and yet preciously intimate as a glimpse of his father's face roiled unpleasantly in his stomach, and he wished that he could have been as lucky as they.

Suddenly irritable and not wishing to meet his father in such a mood Fëatho stalled, smoothing out the already smooth fabric that covered him.

Normally his father met him in the throne room, when there was something his lord and father wished of him. It helped his mood somewhat to think that this particular visit may have been a social one…or a lesson in sorcery.

His father liked his privacy, and his desire for it seemed to have grown over the years, much to Fëatho's disappointment. There was a time when his father used to ride with him to Orodruin, when he was young and ignorant of the workings of his father's forge. Those days had long since passed, and a small pang of longing made him rub irritably at his chest.

The Lord of Mordor was busy, dealing with allies liable to double-cross him, enemies to vanquish, wars to prepare for, and a world to organize and save. He knew his father had not intentionally thrown him to the wayside, but he still wished for the days when his father had been more like a father and less like a master.

Fëatho supposed he could ask his father to accompany him on an outing….

He sighed, tugging irritably at the ends of his plated hair. It was a hopeless affair. His father had over the years sought to restrict both their activities to the tower, and no amount of pleading on his part was liable to change that.

Resigning himself to the futility of his mission, Fëatho sucked in a breath and knocked. From within his chambers his father's voice faintly beckoned, and with no more time left to stall, the boy opened the door.

* * *

Fëatho found the Lord of Mordor standing upon his balcony, idly rubbing the scaly breast of a flyting reptilian creature that Mordor's wartime enemies had cruelly named hell-hawks. Akin they were to the beasts the Nazgûl rode, which might have explained the reasoning behind the hideous name the Gondorians had bestowed upon them, but there was nothing hellish about them as far as the boy was concerned.

The creature's leathery wings flutter, and it screeched at the sight of him, eliciting a chuckle from the Dark Lord.

He watched his father proffer the bird a piece of meat. It eyed the bloodied lump pinched between two gloved fingers, cooing gratefully as it bowed.

"A faithful messenger you have been young one," the Lord of Mordor cooed, his voice dripping with warmth and honey. "Far greater reward shall be given for your services."

Fëatho stood idly in the door, fingers idly fiddling with the ends of his hair. It was rare to see his father in so gracious a mood, and it brought a faint smile to his lips, seeing how such a small and seemingly insignificant creature could give his father pleasure.

Indeed, Orodruin, far off, and extension of the Lord's moods seemed quieter at present.

The long quills running along the hawk's spine rustled as it hungrily watched his father place the meat upon the rail, head poised like a heron's to snatch it as soon as its master's fingers released it.

Like heron it snapped the meat up from the dark stone, before rubbing its scaly face against its master's bloodied gloved fingers, and Fëatho watched, enjoying the sight of such a rare display of affection.

"Return to your roost and rest young one, I would speak with my son alone."

Chittering, the creature fanned its wings, bowing in reverence to its dark master, before leaping into the air.

Fëatho moved from the doorway to watch the little creature's flight, as it returned to its eyrie.

The Lord of Mordor turned. Golden eyes, gleaming like molten fire, appraised him from beneath a heavy dark cowl. Hastily Fëatho averted his gaze and bowed. "Father."

"It seems as though it has been a while since last we spent time in each other's company," the Lord of Mordor spoke, tugging off his bloodied gloves, revealing hands haggard and scared, charred to sooty black, and cut by veins of blood that looked eerily similar to Mount Orodruin's deadly fire. "I thought to rectify that with Luncheon."

The Lord of Mordor gestured to the interior of his chambers, and Fëatho shot him a light smile and followed him inside.

* * *

"Some messages arrived and I'm curious to see what you'll make of them," the Lord of Mordor gestured to a small stack of papers on his desk, as he stole a sip of wine from a copper goblet.

"I'll look them over, and report to you as soon as possible Father…." He trailed off, knowing that the Lord of Mordor would refuse him as soon as he asked, but the desire to get out of Barad-dûr burned hot and bright in his chest.

Carefully Fëatho kept his eyes adverted, wary of his father's gaze. It was potent and powerful, dangerous and nearly impossible to deceive or advert. Those eyes, their full power had never fallen upon him, but he knew it would take little for the Dark Lord to read him, if he did not already guess what thoughts swum in his head, and he did dare give himself away too early. At least not before he was sure he had an argument that might win him over.

"Speak your mind. If there is something you would have of me I'd rather you tell me, than leaving me to guess."

Fëatho flinched. His chest constricted as his hopes were dashed. Again. Exasperated and frustrated, he was suddenly very aware of an itch in his arm, and the need to fiddle with his hair. He had the same anxiously busy fingers his father did, and it took a great deal of effort to keep them from fiddling with the nearest items.

"I wish to leave Barad-dûr."

"Then do so." His father said lightly, without even looking up at him, seemingly very engrossed in wiping his fingers with a napkin. "I have not locked you behind iron bars or demanded that you stay." Fëatho knew better than to smile and leap for joy. It was his father's smooth cool equivalent to sarcasm, or at least it could have been, if not for the venom that ran beneath the words. It was a trick of one form or another, of that the boy was sure, even if there was no outward of it.

"But I have duties that keep me here-"

"As they should." The fiery eyes within the darkness of the Dark Lord's hood seemed to glow a bit brighter than before as they once again fell upon his son, and already Fëatho was mentally fumbling for a response. Everything he'd planned, everything he'd rehearsed was crumbling to dust on his tongue.

He may have been the son of Sauron, but he had inherited none of his eloquence. As he made the mistake of directly looking into his father's fiery eyes his resolve crumpled, and he struggled to continue his futile plea.

"Father I-"he bit his lip. "I-I wish to see the world. I don't mean through the gaze of the eye, I mean actually experiencing what is beyond our borders. I want to feel the grass beneath my feet, I want to stand under the sun, listening to the calls of exotic birds, and climb up mountain peaks that are strange and new. I want to explore and discover the world. Please, Father, allow me this. Please."

Fëatho leaned across the table, food and drink forgotten, eyes bright with longing and excitement. There were places he dreamt of going, people and creatures he dreamt of meeting, and activities he'd only heard of, but had never done. And a trip away from Mordor would allow him to shed his duties and gain some freedom. It seemed like so small a thing to ask for.

"You sound much like your mother."

Fëatho froze, breath freezing in his lungs.

His father rarely mentioned her. And all Fëatho knew was that she died young –even for one of the Edain- and she was buried in a crypt, under one Barad-dur's many lower towers.

Rendered speechless he could do nothing but wait, hoping that his father would tell him of her. "I permitted her departure… only the parts of her I could find, and those large enough to be carried ever returned." The Lord of Mordor regarded him over steepled fingers. "And yet you would ask this of me."

Fëatho knew that he'd once again failed to prevail upon his father. It was painfully clear that his mother was being held responsible for her demise, and that the adventurous streak he shared with her was not something to be proud of. Deep in his chest that knowledge tore at him, burning the back of his throat, as stinging tears clotted in his eyes. On a horrible precipice he teetered. He wanted to leave, needed to leave, but he needed his father's approval too. And between those two desires he was being pulled apart.

Why could he not have both? Was that just too much to wish for?

At least, if nothing else, he understood his father's aversion to his departing. But he would not be like his mother. He would return whole and hail, and never again would his father have need to refuse such a request. But then but then the Dark Lord would probably never ever have to, because all Fëatho felt he needed was a glimpse of the outside world. Surely that could satisfy his curiosity. No. It would. It had to.

But his father would be not be won an emotional appeal. The Lord of Mordor was pragmatist and it would take logic to convince him.

"Father I'm not a military mind, nor do I possess your charisma. I'm not fit to rule or command-"

"What have I groomed you for if not command?"

Fëatho flinched at the softness of his father's voice. "I will always lead men under your banner, Father. But…." He trailed off into pitiful silence. Never had he been able to articulate his true feelings, no matter how coherent and steadfast his words were in his head. The moment he opened his mouth the words always got stuck or entangled themselves, useless and very unhelpful. The boy wished he were braver, that he could speak openly of his true desires, he feared what his father-what the Lord of Mordor would do with such knowledge. He loved his father more than anything in the world, and never would he understand that. But also he wanted his father to be proud of him, to love him unconditionally, but his father's love was conditional, rigged with strings of manipulations and barbed with cruelty. He had learned that observing his father's treatment of other's people love, how he twisted it and moulded it into a weapon to be used against them, and he wanted to be different- needed to be different: the exception to the norm.

"Yes?" The Lord of Mordor inquired after a long pause.

"Father my assets lie not in warfare, nor in politics. You can teach me, and you have taught me, but I feel like I fail you. Constantly. I disappoint you, and I want you to be proud," his throat clenched, and his eyes prickled. Unable to face his father in such a state he looked away, swallowing down the lump that clogged his throat, and strangled his words. "I want to feel, that I have earned what's been given to me, and as a leader, as a commander…." _And as a captivating speaker,_ the voice in Fëatho's head bit out sarcastically. _I will never make you proud._

"I want to do something. I want to go out and learn. I want to be worthy of what I have here. Of you, and I feel like I do no good, like I'll lose my mind if I say here for much longer. Father want to be a wolf." His father uttered a bark of laughter, and suddenly encouraged Fëatho pressed on. "I'm the son of the Lord of Werewolves and I've done nothing remotely close to wolfish. Please allow me this one opportunity. I can be your eyes and ears in places that your hawks, spiders, wolves, and nightly creatures cannot go."

"I have too many commanders you say. Do you think I want for spies?"

"Father," Fëatho's red hair turned black, and his blue eyes turned green. His ears tapered to fine points, and his face narrowed, until what sat across from the Lord of Mordor wasn't Fëatho the Young Wolf, but an elf. "I can go where none of your other servants would dare to tread. This I could do, if you would but give me the opportunity. Please. If-if I fail then when I return, I'll do all that you ask, and I'll never speak of leaving Barad-dûr again. I swear."

The Dark Lord exhaled, taking another sip of wine. "I allowed your mother to wander into far less dangerous territory and that was enough to kill her. You wish for me to permit…no-wilfully send my son and the heir into dangerous lands so that he can get his blood flowing?"

"I am not my mother. I am Fëatho Gorthaurion, the Young Wolf, and your son. I will return, I promise."

The cloaked Maia's eyes glittered beneath his hood. "As your father I will not allow this, and as your Lord I will not sanction this. I will not send my heir to my enemies on a gilded platter."

Fëatho leaned his face into his hands, despairing as once again his father denied him.

Vaguely he was aware of the slither of heavy fabric, and the faint scrape of a chair as his father stood, but Fëatho didn't care, until heavy warm hands fell upon his shoulders.

Flinching he looked up, staring beseechingly into the golden molten eyes that appraised him.

"Fëatho, my Little Wolf-" His chest constricted and his teeth dug painfully into his lip as he struggled to keep his composure. It had been so long since his father called him that, let alone any term of endearment. "Who would rule after me if something were to go wrong? Who would rebuild my empire from the ruins if I could not do so?"

"I would," he choked out. "But I could never build as you. You must always rule."

The very notion that his father could be defeated, overthrown, by the pitiful remnants of Numenor was absurd in its audacity. He knew it had happened before, but his adversaries had many and great then.

There was nothing in the world for him to fear, and Fëatho found his worries paranoid and delusional. No one would harm his father, and he'd tear the world apart if someone thought to try. He knew his father would be nonplussed by further ruination of Arda, but he'd take his father's disappointment over his loss.

"If I'm not allowed to leave then you're not allowed to be defeated. The world needs you, the people out there need you, your enemies need you, and I-I-I-" He choked on a painful glob of condensed air and mucus. Without thinking Fëatho threw his arms around the unnaturally hot torso of his father, burying his face in his chest. ' _I love you.'_

He clung to his father like a sailor to a lifeline, hating the stupid hot tears that stung his eyes and soaked into his father's cloak, wishing that he could do something, even if it was only one thing, to make him proud. Spying was perfect for him and he knew it.

It was the perfect escape from Barad-dûr and the way he knew he could help most. He was good at hearing rumours, good at validating them, and good at learning their sources, but there was no way to convince his father of that.

"I'll return. I promise I'll return."

A gentle hand settled on his head, but the voice that spoke was edged with ice. "I have made my position on this matter clear, and I wish to hear no more of it."

Fëatho shuddered and pressed himself closer, snuggling closer, relishing the warmth of the impromptu embrace, aware that it would be over far too soon.


	2. The Nature of Being

**Author's Note: I know it's been a thousand years since I touched this. Not because I'd forgotten it or anything like that. I was struggling with this chapter actually and then real life got in the way.**

 **Normally I dislike slow introductions like this. But I thought expanding on the complicated relationship between Fëatho and Sauron before dumping them into the main plot (the part I'm really excited about) would have been too jarring. So we'll be suffering the darkness of Mordor a bit more. But we will be joining the Council of Elrond soon. And chapter three is in the works.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own this.**

 **The Nature of Being**

* * *

Try Fëatho did, to push all thoughts of adventure from his mind. He was a Lord. He had duties to attend to, and dreams of traveling were nothing more than a distraction to divert him from what was truly important: helping his father fix a broken world.

Framed maps hung from his walls. Above his desk the most eastern and western of the countries that intrigued him hung, pristine and beautiful behind their panes of protective glass. From there the Eastern counties could be followed westward along one wall, and the Western countries followed eastward along the opposite, until they met Mordor in the middle, hanging over the head of his bed.

All his maps had been drawn on the same golden parchment, but while the rest were merely dark lines, his map of Mordor was flush with colours. Soft ethereal strokes of watercolour paint, teased the southern provinces a bright green. The Sea of Núrnen blushed a pale grey-blue, and the north was veiled in a gentle curls misty grey.

"Ikshu," he addressed the most trusted of his servants. In truth he thought of the man as both a chamberlain and a friend more than an actual slave.

Already he heard the Easterling's gentle steps across the polished dark marble.

"Yes my Lord."

Fëatho curled a lock of copped hair around his finger. Already he felt a pang of longing, but he knew himself well enough to know he could and would sit idle staring at those maps for hours, imagining what it would be like to wander those different lands.

"I wish the maps to be removed."

If they were taken somewhere he could not see them then he wouldn't be distracted.

"All of them?" Ikshu asked, surprised. He knew his master's love for his maps and his longing to see the world.

"All save that one." He gestured to the map of Mordor. That one would stay, hanging colourful and beautiful upon his wall, to contrast the dark stone that would be rendered stark and solemn.

"I don't want to know what you do with them," he added as an afterthought. And without any desire to see his precious maps removed, he left in a swish of pale blue robes, trusting Ikshu to his task.

When he returned to his chamber, Fëatho paused in the door, fiddling with the end of his braid, unhappily eying the vacant walls. His room no longer felt like it was his, and the loss of his maps brought a pang to his chest, that hastily he stamped down.

 _It's better this way._

His walls were vacant; his own living quarters felt alien, but soon he'd change that. Just as he would successfully purge himself of wanderlust, so too would he bring fresh colour to his chambers. In the meantime he had studies and lordly duties to occupy him.

Between him and Ikshu the maps were never spoken of again.

It was no small thing darkening his walls, but Mordor's prince was resolved in his decision. Nevertheless, keeping his eyes away from the windows, and his mind from wandering far afield, proved a more challenging and daunting task. He desired so much to see what else was out there- with an irritable jerk against his errant thoughts he pulled his mind to the present. Always it was a struggle to ignore what he wanted most, especially when his work or his studies became tedious and routine. But he had promised his father he would do this, and he would- it was, he told himself, so small a thing.

The world however, saw fit to mock his efforts. Not more than a month had gone by since Ikshu had hidden the maps away, when she arrived in Barad-dûr to taunt him and undo all he'd worked for.

From Far Harad, a lord had come, bearing gifts, and an urgent need of his dark god's guidance. When the summons came, in the form another orc messenger, to join his father in the throne room, he'd been standing in an outer causeway, staring in wonder at the riders upon their great and powerful mûmakil lumbering through the streets below.

It was with great reluctance he turned his head away from the impressive creatures, and headed to his chambers to be made ready.

Darkness clotted the vaulted ceiling. It was a horrible abyss tying to snuff out the braziers and torches that fretfully sputtered and danced in the throne room. They offered light enough to see by, but their flickering seemed like an impudent display of hopeless futility against the black. There was no victory against the abyss that hovered behind the pillars and obscured the banners hanging forlornly from the ceiling above-the only relics left of fallen kingdoms-and crouched like a predator waiting to descend on them all.

"King Nizar," the Mouth of Sauron introduced their guests, and his cold voice echoed softly until it lost itself amid the ancient banners above his head. He was a Black Numenorean, who served as the Dark Lord's emissary primarily, but functioned as anything else his father may have required. "And his daughter, Princess Sawda."

Behind them were servants and slaves already kneeling beside large chests. The pair in, their brilliant colourful array sank, no better than their slaves before the Lord of Mordor.

The Mouth bowed low to his master and hastily retreated to stand at the left hand side of the dais, leaving hopeless dark emptiness in the space he'd once stood as an unsought shield offering some glimmer of hope and safety against the wrath of the a dark god. All that he'd stolen from them, and well he knew it, if the glema in his eyes was any indication.

On the dais, to the right of the throne, and a pace or so behind it, Fëatho had the honour standing. He inwardly rolled his eyes at the Mouth's antics, before brushing aside his disdain, to focus on their guests.

The King was a tall man, dark skinned, and draped in robes of brown, green, and gold. Next to him the princess, in a dress of blue and gold, that pooled like sunlight water around her, knelt and Fëatho felt his face grow warm. Instinctively his lip quirked in a faint smile. She was a few years older than him, and absolutely beautiful. A few servants knelt behind them, but he spared them only a passing glance before returning his gaze to the girl.

Fëatho's heart fluttered, and he frowned, fighting down the urge to step back and slink into the shadow of the dark heavy drapes, hiding the throne in gloom.

In their darkness, his red hair was bloody and his golden jewels glinted coldly. A regal and cruel image in the eyes of those who beheld him, if only the boy had known that was how he appeared. But next to the might of Mordor's Lord he was contemptuously unimpressive; like a candle flame that a light breeze could snuff out.

Darker than the gluttonous abyss longing to fall upon them, the Lord of the Black Land sat in his mighty throne. He towered over all and the dark crown on his hooded brow added to his height. Always he hid his face, but his fiery eyes, below the gold trimmed mantle were visible if any had the audacity or fortitude to look. Like pools of hateful destructive fire they burned the heads bowed to him in obeisance. And what those eyes alone could do no one kneeling before him wished to learn first-hand. The rumours alone were horrible enough.

His small audience, kneeling before the dais were every bit as awestruck as they were terrified, demurely keeping their gazes upon the floor, as they waited in dreadful anticipation for the Dark Lord to speak.

"Speak." The command fell like a slab of granite, so deep and sonorous it rattled bones in their sheaths of flesh and reverberated though the walls and floor. Gone was the soft voice of Fëatho's father, lost behind the terrifying visage of the Dark Lord.

Shaking and nodding, the Haradrim Lord spoke, his reedy voice punctuated by gasps of awe, terror, or some dreadful mingling of both.

"Most High, I have brought you gifts in thanks for finding the time to treat with us."

At his words, a few of the King's servants brought a trio of chests to the foot of the dais. They kept their heads down and their eyes adverted away from the throne, bowing as they lifted each lid one by one with trembling fingers.

The sickly dim torch light did not wink from gold jewels but wavered on the inky sheen of dark leather bound books. Fëatho, every bit as terrified as they were of the Dark Lord at that moment, lifted a brow. It was a brilliant offering, and from the corner of his eye, he watched the throne for any sign of a reaction. Barad-dûr boasted a wealth of knowledge that would have been the envy of the world, had the Dark Lord not made such a coveted and closely guarded secret of it. The library spanned an entire tower of its own from foot to crown. If that was not proof of his father's enduring love for literature then he didn't know what was.

His patience was rewarded when the Dark Lord shifted, reminding Fëatho of a cat languidly stretching after an afternoon nap roused only by a bowl of cream set before its nose. His father laughed at flattery, genuinely finding overly ostentatious praise amusing and a bit annoying, but this hit too close to the heart, too earnest in its appearance to be so easily scoffed at.

It seemed the Dark Lord felt the same. After another moment of thoughtful silence he spoke. "I accept your generous offer."

Inwardly Fëatho smiled in relief. He wasn't entirely sure he wanted to know what would have happened otherwise. King Nizar was a clever man, bringing bookd when others would have brought jewels.

While no one could truly be relaxed before his father's throne. Fëatho sensed a weight had been lifted from the king's shoulders, with the acceptance of his gifts.

He brought his woes and plights to the feet of his lord and god telling him of King Sufyan, the ruler of a neighbouring city state in in the misty jungles of Far Harad. A trade agreement had been breached, and it seemed war was on the horizon and he wished for the Dark Lord to settle the matter before it came to that, but Fëatho couldn't pay attention.

What had started as casual observation of the princess had turned into something more. The entire world revolved around her. The king's thin voice was no more than a delicate breeze wafting in the background, and his father's was nothing more than the geological rumble of a far off mountain.

She was beautiful, bronze skinned and ebony haired, he wished to see her face, to know the colour of her eyes. He wanted to hear her speak, to laugh, to smile. And she had a nice…chest?

 _Aren't the eyes supposed to be what's found beautiful about a person? Every other love story ever, mentions the beauty of the eyes. Something's wrong with me!_

His heart was still beating too fast, and he worriedly bit his tongue, unsure if he was ill or if the princess had maybe done something to him. Either way, he couldn't leave, nor ask to excuse himself. Whatever was going on, he would have to endure it, and hope it passed. But his eyes refused to leave her torso. It was nice. He didn't know specifically what it was he liked about it, but he did.

It was then he noticed the tremor in her shoulders, and thoughts of her fine chest turned into a mix of irrational distress and protectiveness. In that moment, there was nothing he wanted more than to grab Sawda's hand and take her from the terror of the throne room. But he did not. He could not. He dared not. Decorum would not allow it, let alone the Lord of Mordor.

The air around him seemed to thicken… and he sensed the gaze of his Lord upon him, even though he knew his father had not turned his head. It was his will, the silent glare of a fiery eye on his shoulders. Dread wormed its way into his chest, and he tried to suppress a shudder. Somehow, someway his father guessed his thoughts, and he was not pleased. But as quickly as the pressure fell on him, it lifted.

He clenched his fists in the confines of his long flowing sleeves refusing to fiddle with his hair and shamefully reveal his discomfort.

Rigidly he stood, trying and failing to listen to the Haradrim's Leader's voice, but his eyes were drawn toward her. No. He was drawn toward her, like a moth to light, and it frustrated him that he could not approach.

"King Sufyan will come to the Dark Tower soon enough. He offers ten thousand men for your campaigns if you support his claim."

"Should I not wait for him, then?" The Dark Lord asked, eyes glittering. Amusedly he smirked. For a very high price his time could be bought to settle such a trifling matter as a war between city-states in the misty forests of the far south.

"It is both blasphemous and presumptive, Most High, to even consider telling a god what he should or should not do." The king answered. His eyes were narrowed to the floor, and he shuddered as a bead of sweat ran down his neck. "His offer- it comes with…" His eyes lifted, not to the Dark Lord, but to his right, before dropping to the floor. "Provisions."

For a horrific beat Fëatho stared down at the man, mouth opened slightly, shocked by his boldness: to gaze at that which his own god had decreed too sacred to be looked upon. His heart thudded noisily in his breast, and his fingers clenched and opened as he bit his lip already sensing the subtle darkening of the air around the throne.

Shadow shifted where the Dark Lord sat, a spark of cold puissance darkening the space around him. And Fëatho heard it, the one sound, that none ever wanted to hear: the faint shushing glide of leather against polish stone, as the Lord of Mordor twirled his finger.

"My proposal, however, comes with no such conditions," The king spoke with a mix of urgency and poise. "And I intend to offer what he cannot."

"What do you offer?" Mordor's Lord asked blithely as if he were only contemplating the weather rather than a befitting punishment to exact upon a rude and disobedient guest. His finger still danced across his armrest, and the darkness about him continued to thicken, and his eyes continued to burn, as he waited for the king to answer him; dallying to punish them right away, only so that he could dangle the hope of possible clemency before them until he saw fit to snatch it back.

Hastily the king answered, "Mûmakil." A note of pride laced his voice that even fear could not bend. "Bred specifically for war. I offer twenty."

Surprise jerked Fëatho's head up.

The darkness around the throne was still tangible and curled to lash out, but within the heart of it, the Dark Lord hesitated. His thoughts turned inward, and while the darkness itself did not recede, the terrible threat of immediate danger halted.

Twenty mûmakil? Legendary beasts from the south, they would terrify his own soldiers, let alone his enemies, and the Dark Lord's lip curled. Gondor's horsemen, in their meagre numbers would stand no chance against them.

Even if the wizard Sarumon failed to break the Rohirrim, and the Horse Lords managed to miraculously ride to Minas Tirith to aid their allies, their charge would break upon an impenetrable wall of tusks and rakes. Their cavalry would be useless against his.

"How soon could they be made ready?" The only downside, the Dark Lord noted, was that mûmakil were costly. Their food was expensive, and a place of dwelling would have to be made for them, but Mordor with her wealth and flowing tributaries could support them.

"They already are," the king answered. "They need only be sent for." His voice trembled with fear and hope. And the Dark Lord eyed him coolly from under his gold trim hood, hesitating only to prolong the man's discomfort a little while long, to wring out what pleasure he could from such a thing, and to drive home the point that the man ought to consider himself incredibly lucky.

The promise of twenty mûmakil was too good to pass up, and he disliked the idea of sentencing a man to death in front of his young son, even if the man deserved it. Soon enough the boy would need to see what was done with those who broke the law or revealed themselves as traitors, though he would prefer that it be over a greater infraction than a breach in etiquette.

But for now he could afford to give mercy to the man who had bought his miserable life with twenty mûmakil. The threat that hung perilous in the air ebbed.

"I will send a representative, with terms, to accompany you on your journey home. On your arrival they will speak to King Sufyan, to remind him that it would be very unwise on his part to see me become further involved, and you will send the twenty mûmakil you've promised me- fully armed, with their handlers and riders."

The King inclined his head. "My most effusive thanks Most High. If you wish to, you may take one from among the six mûmakil currently residing here. While not bred for war, they are well equipped for comfortable travel. Most High One," he genuflected as he knelt.

The Dark Lord paused a moment. His finger no longer gliding along the dark polished stone of his armrest. "Do not make the mistake of looking at my son a second time. My forgiveness has its limits, and I can assure you that it would not bode well if you were test them. I let it slide only because you find me in a most gracious mood. Dismissed."

With emphatic apologies, and enthusiastic reassurances that such a mistake would never happen again, the king rose, bowed deeply, and left as hurriedly as he could without appearing to run. Princess Sawda gracefully curtsied, and hastily followed in her father's steps.

Disappointedly Fëatho marked her passage, frowning when she'd disappeared, taking her sunlight and blue skies with her.

Inwardly sighing, he made to leave, only to feel a sudden but familiar weight descend upon his shoulders. Eyes adverted to the floor, he turned to the throne.

"You will stay. I wish to have a word with you."

"Yes, my Lord." He bowed, and tried to casually stand tall and unperturbed while his father's slaves hastily retrieved the chests of books from the floor, to see them safely ensconced in the Dark Lord's chambers.

The Mouth bowed before the throne. "Dost thou have further need of me, Majesty?"

"Not presently."

After another bow, the Mouth turned on his heal and departed. He trailed lazily after the slaves carrying the chests. On his way out he paused and raised a gloved hand. The great throne room doors swung silently inward, leaving the pair alone.

Swiftly Fëatho knelt before the throne, offering his father the same obeisance a servant would. He stared down at the polished dark marble beneath him, waiting in fear for his lord and father to speak to him. Heart pounding in his chest, he breathed slowly, trying to maintain an appearance of calm. What had he done?

In answer his mind conjured images of the princess. He'd let himself be distracted, and his father knew it. She was beautiful and poised and graceful and had what he considered to be a petty name. Surely that was not so wrong, was it?

In the darkness conjured by dwindling tendrils of fey magic, ebony drapes, and black stone, the Dark Lord sat, contemplatively watching his son stare at the floor. The girl's presence, and the ease with which she'd wrenched her son's attention from the proceedings had illuminated a matter of importance. One he'd been hesitant to broach until now, as he had not been certain how or when to appropriately address it.

"What think you of our guests?"

What did he think? What did he think? The boy didn't know what he thought, but he had known a line of questions in a similar vein would meet him the moment his father had asked him to stay. Carefully Fëatho mulled over his answers, unsure how best to express them. He knew what it was his father wished to know, and he feared what would come of that knowledge. He'd done something wrong.

"I think King Nizar is clever and resourceful." He chewed his lip. "And blessed with a copious amount of wealth to offer up twenty mûmakil so freely…or very desperate and terribly afraid of losing said wealth?" Why did he feel so much like a stammering idiot? He had certainly known of his father's love of books or had not, and yet managed to be incredibly lucky. And after a moment Fëatho continued. "Well informed too, I think. Or very good at guessing? He presented you with books when most others would have brought gold, jewels, soldiers, slaves, or harem girls."

"Harem girls?" A jovial lilt entered his father's voice, which spurred the boy to relax slightly.

"I've heard that such offers have been attempted my Lord. I know not the truth of them. I dare say, it sounds like a Second Born thing to do, though I imagine the girls would have been promptly gifted to loyal servants, assuming that any had ever accepted in the first place."

The Lord of Mordor smiled under his hood finding Fëatho's rambling musings entertaining. From the mouth of anyone else however, he would not have smiled, at the very least, he not have smiled for the same reason.

"And our other guest: Princess Sawda? What do you make of her?"

At that Fëatho inwardly recoiled. Suddenly embarrassed and unwilling to speak, his hand surreptitiously reached for his hair until he caught himself.

 _Not here._

He bit his tongue, unwilling to proceed. She was beautiful and he liked looking at her. He wanted to talk to her, get to know her, and maybe stare into her eyes for a hundred years like Thingol had done when he'd spied the Maia, Melian dancing in her nightingale filled glade. He didn't dare tell his father that, but what could he say?

 _Blue skies and sunshine? Oh, how father will be thrilled to hear that!_

"I think-I think-"The boy flushed as he tripped over his words. This was not a conversation to have with his father and certainly not one to have with the Lord of Mordor. "I think I know nothing of her, save for what she looks like." It was as diplomatic an answer he could give. No more than simple truth.

He could practically hear his father's finger twirling against the armrest, and he shuddered.

"She said nothing. Not a word." Fëatho wished that she had. He also wished it had been her that had looked at him. Even as he thought it he knew it likely would not have gone over as well as it had when the king had done it.

"You find her beautiful." It was not a question, and Fëatho flushed shamefully, but he didn't dare play coy a second time.

"Yes, my Lord."

His faced burned with that terrible admission, and he could not have looked up even if he had wanted to.

"Rise," the Dark Lord commanded. Obediently Fëatho stood, keeping his head down to hide his face rather than to show respect.

Fabric shifted as the Dark Lord moved. "Come forward."

Ashamed and worried, his fingers twisted in the ends of his hair, as he rose step after step after step, until he stood before the throne.

Nervously he paused, waiting, for yet another command uttered in that deep tectonic voice.

"There is a matter of grave importance of which we must speak, far more befitting of a conversation between father and son, than that of a master and his servant."

There was a brief pause. Fëatho stood stock still, calmer than before but still uncertain. The Dark Lord mentally prepared himself for a grim topic of conversation.

When Sauron spoke next, it was with the calm and quiet tone Fëatho had come to associate with 'Father.'

"So let us speak together, you and I. Shall we?"

At that his son nodded, still red in the cheeks and tittering nervously on the dais steps.

The Lord of Mordor took his son's face in his hands, and youthful eyes of storm-cloud grey, met ancient and wearied eyes of molten fire. Tension left Fëatho's shoulders like water slipping through cupped hands. His fingers fell limply from his hair and he waited with a light frown for his father to continue. Truly the boy was special; where anyone else would have quailed and fallen in sheer terror, he looked relieved. It made the Dark Lord smile softly in the recesses of his cowl.

"Begotten by me, my Little Wolf, you are Edain and Maia and you must reconcile yourself with two opposing sides of a single whole." His hands fell to the boy's shoulders, one giving a lock of unbound copper hair a teasing yank. "You live in two incongruent worlds at once, and while this is not an evil thing, it does mean that you will have to face certain realities. Your existence may be a tumultuous one, especially, where matters of the heart are concerned."

He smiled joylessly. "It is of the heart we need to speak, for it is both a source of great strength and great harm."

"Harm?" Fëatho frowned. Love was not something he would have thought of as dangerous let alone harmful. "I don't understand."

"No. No I supposed you don't and can't yet, though if you're lucky you'll never have to, but luck is faithless and dangerous to depend on. It is not by choice that I impart such a terrible truth, but you must understand that your choices and actions will have irreversible and perilous consequences. Edain give of themselves easily, not to say that there are no consequences, but choosing wrongly in love, or losing such love through death or betrayal, is easier for them to bear. And you, my son, I think will find it easier to fall, to give of yourself. So heed my warning, and heed it well. A heart given too freely, or too often is one that is liable to suffer the abuses and machinations of others. You will not escape the pain of rejection or loss as easily as the Second Born, because you are Ainur too."

The Dark Lord, gently squeezed his son's shoulders. The boy was looking to him with rapt attention and unhappily confused eyes, hanging on his every word, waiting desperately for the caveat that would not come. Edain and Ainur had distinctly different needs. Fëatho's desire to travel, he felt, was proof of that. Most Maiar, himself included were content to dwell in the places they considered home, and his son did not seem to wish sharing in that lifestyle.

"Ainur do not give of themselves so easily or freely, because they cannot. Their love is not inherently more powerful, but it is felt more strongly. They are beings of spirit after all, who bind themselves together with more than just flesh. They only take one mate, because they can only afford one. They give more than men do, and they can afford to for the most part: love when it is unrequited-rare as an occurrence as it is- leaves them in extraordinary pain. But death at least, they need not fear. In this you are not so lucky."

"I'm immortal. I'm like you-"

The Dark Lord lifted a finger, bidding him to wait.

"You are deathless, yes, but the person you become enamoured of may not be."

He paused to gather his thoughts. The Dark Lord was determined not to let his son become enamoured to an Edain, nor any other for that matter, but such possessive thoughts he kept deeply buried, and focused instead on the conversation at hand.

"You will live to see all the ages of the world unfold, gifted with an Ainur's immortality. If you give your heart to one among the Second Born, it will be a short-lived love that you'll enjoy. For the ages to come you will continue on, suffering that loss. A union with one among the Eldar carries risk as well, lessened by their inherent immortality, but they suffer here in Middle Earth, and they can succumb to injury of spirit and flesh-"

"-But Lúthien- she was able to do it! How did she do it?"

"She went to the Halls of Mandos and was allowed to make a choice between the immortality she had been born with and the mortality she craved so that she never had to part from her lover. You who has never been to Aman, and will likely never have the opportunity to journey thither will not be granted such a choice."

Fëatho's brow furrowed. "Why not?"

Anger and fear replaced confusion. But even as the Dark Lord reached for his distressed child, to pull him close, Fëatho resisted. "Why? Father? I don't understand-"

"It is the nature of Ainur. It is the nature of who and what you are."

"The nature of-!" Fëatho yanked himself from his father's grip. His eyes blazed with fire, as he stared at his beloved father. "That's it? Why-how can that be all there is? And what if-what if I do I fall in love-?!"

Fuming, and unwilling to believe what it was he was hearing he buried his face in his hands.

His father sighed, and leaned back, giving the boy the space he thought he needed.

"It depends. Ainur become incarnate, but you being half Edain already are…." The Dark Lord mused, unwilling or perhaps, truly incapable of answering. "Some part of your powers you would likely lose, which I can't be certain, though a couple are immediately suspect. Beyond that nothing is certain. Maybe then you would be stripped of immortality, though I daresay you would live an extraordinarily long time, if that were the case. No. Ultimately I think it will be as I said, you will live forever with your grief."

"I'll fade too right?! Like Melian when Thingol died! It's not fair!"

"Fëatho-"

"It's not! Why did you and mother decide to have me? You must have known what would happen. I don't want this!"

The fire in the boy's eyes was mirrored by fire in his fingertips. Puissant, his anger and fear curled about him, and he stood brighter than anyone who had ever walked in Mordor. The torches and braziers, with their pitiful light, disappeared, out-shone, by the son of Sauron.

"Fëatho-"

"Why!?" Never had he shouted, but he shouted at his father, truly resenting both his parents, as he glared up into the darkness, too dismayed to be afraid.

Silver tongued as he had always been, the Dark Lord held out his hands out in a gesture to placate. A brief spark of power, and something forlorn and sorrowful left the palms of his hands. It slowly leeched through the space between them, while he waited for the boy's moiling anger burn and fume at a distance.

One terrible truth he would never tell his son, was that his very existence was an accident, or more likely, and altogether far worse: a punishment contrived by a cruel god that wanted his father to suffer in the most painful way, apart from losing his ring.

The ring-losing a piece of himself would always be worse.

Those horrible thoughts, he pushed to the back of his mind.

Instead the Dark Lord wove truths and lies together until they meshed in profound harmony. The words in his distraught and grief stricken voice fell from his lips greased with fey compulsion, yearning to be harkened to. Carefully he pulled a faint wisp of power from himself, and crafted his spell, the way a potter moulded clay, breathing thin tendrils of enthralling power into the air about him, making an image of brittle hurt and stark remorse that he painted before the eyes of his son.

"Why? Because we knew as soon as we had conceived you, that you were precious. A kind spirit, pure of heart, and bright: we loved you before we had even met you. You were going to be the sun that brought the day to balance out Mordor's perpetual night. So golden and bright- my Little Wolf, we were perhaps selfish in wanting you to join us here, that we did not take note of the consequences for our actions until it was too late." Thicker now he pulled remorse about himself. Where genuine truth began and falsity ended were hopeless entangled. "That is a fault that lies with both I, and your mother. We gave you life so that you could live it- not to cause harm, not to reveal in so a cruel a manner, the unfairness of the world you live in."

Heaving with unshed barely held back sobs, Fëatho stared at his father, with desperate hope and terror. The Dark Lord was safe and could make all the bad things go away, and yet this particular injustice was his doing. His father reached out for him, exhaling more of glamour into the air about himself.

The bright light that emanated from his son slowly faded, leaving the throne room in what seemed like greater darkness than it had been in before. A phosphorescent echo of his son's golden power left a fuzzy bright haze in the Dark Lord's vision as he carefully wove that glimmer of puissant allure about himself.

Upset and frustrated, his son took no notice of his father's contrivances and pulled forward by the power that the Dark Lord cloaked himself in, he leaned for a moment into gentle hands, only to pull away a moment later.

He regarded his father with eyes filled with unshed tears. His fingers were tangled in the ends of his hair.

"I wish to be excused. May I father? My Lord?"

His father pulled away, regarding him from under his hood.

"I have not said what I have to scare you away from falling in love. I only council you to think carefully, to weigh your options wisely." A long sigh slithered out from under the gold trimmed cowl. "You have my permission to go."

With a hasty bow, Fëatho tossed decorum to the wind and fled the throne room. He stopped running once he got to the door. In the hall he composed himself. With as much speed as possible, he made for his chambers.

Through Barad-dûr's winding halls, Fëatho made his way, dark robes swishing, and eyes blazing. For the first time ever his father's servants balked at the sight of him, and rushed to avoid crossing his path.

Shuddering, and losing the battle to keep himself composed, the boy fell into his chamber. Throwing the door shut behind him, the first sob bubbled up from his lungs, and he cinched his arms around his torso to hold himself together as more followed.

Moving forward he staggered through the arch that opened to his bedroom proper. He flung himself onto his bed, and curled, sobbing into the coverlet.

Ikshu brought him tea, milk, and pastries, but oblivious to all but his own despair the young lord continued to heave ragged sobs; inconsolable.

In his throne, the Dark Lord, sat with his face buried in his hands. The truth had been too poisonous for his young son's mind, and he didn't need to extend his mind outward to know his son was weeping, as the toxicity of the wound spread through his psyche.

One by one candles and braziers extinguished themselves, as the Dark Lord sank into deep and brooding contemplation. What had been said could not be unsaid, and what had been revealed could not be forgotten.


End file.
